


Z's kinktober fills

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Multi, POV Multiple, See chapters for warnings, and additional pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 04:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 12,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21265361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: 26(ish) fills for Kinktober 2019. Pairings will be listed in each chapter title, along with whatever kink was being filled. I tried to actually write every day, but unfortunately wasn't able to finish. Also tried for crack, and occasionally stumbled into being real.





	1. Ass Worship (wincest)

The problem, of course, was that Sammy was all the way over _there_.

Dean said, “C’mere.”

Sam sighed, and said, “No.”

“_Sammy_,” Dean said, with great reproach, and okay, so he was in traction basically and tied up six ways from Sunday, and these meds were maybe making him a little–a lot–loopy, but that was no reason for Sam to be withholding. “Lemme take a little bite.”

Sam stopped reading the medical chart, and turned around. “Dude,” he said, in a tone of long and unfair suffering, “you cannot ‘eat my ass like a coconut cream pie’. You can’t stand up. Stop it.”

Dean made a pouty mouth, but Sam only rolled his eyes. Jerk. When Dean got out of these casts he was gonna show Sam’s ass what was what. Anyway. It was a banana cream pie, ‘cause Dean was gonna stick his banana in it, hur hur.

Sam sighed more when he had to come over and pat Dean’s back, after he choked on his jello cup from laughing too hard.

_fin._


	2. Voyeurism (wincest, Jack, Castiel)

“Castiel,” Jack said, sounding puzzled. “What does it mean to _move furniture_?”

Cas lifted his head away from the demonology text he’d been skimming and felt an odd prickle travel down his spine. Over the years since his fall he’d learn to identify it as terror. “Why,” he said, and had to clear his throat, “do you ask?”

Jack perched all attentive on the edge of his chair, an eager bird. “Well, I think I understand the concept. Humans–people–have furniture, and sometimes it needs to be relocated, so they move it from place to place. On the television I even saw a company that can do it for them.”

“That’s correct,” Cas said, relieved. “Humans often outsource labor in exchange for money. They find it to be an adequate exchange, considering the limited time they have on earth.”

Jack nodded, thoughtful. “That makes sense, I suppose,” he said, though it was anyone’s guess if he actually understood time, or mortality for that matter. His brow furrowed, golden. “But then, why does Dean ask Sam if he wants to ‘move furniture?’ He says it like I think he says stuff that’s supposed to be a joke, but I don’t see them rearranging things in Dean’s room.”

“Jack,” Cas said, and found himself at a loss for words. Jack blinked at him. “Do you–um. Do you watch them? When they’re… moving furniture?”

“Oh, yes,” Jack said, cheerfully. “It’s very loud. And messy. Sometimes Dean says lots of words Sam told me I wasn’t supposed to say.” His head tilts, like something has just occurred to him. “Oh, once they did knock over Dean’s dresser after a while, and Sam had to help pick it back up. Does that count?”

Cas has seen it a few times himself. They’re both very strong, for humans, and very… enthusiastic, and don’t often consider what celestial eyes might be watching. “I think,” Cas says, mouth bizarrely dry, “that that would count. As moving furniture. But it’s a–private human activity, Jack, so it would be best if you left them to it. And maybe don’t bring this up. To them.”

Jack frowned, but shrugged, and went back to his own book. Cas wondered if there were a way to mention to either Sam or Dean that the _furniture moving_ activities he wasn’t supposed to know about were now known to their very impressionable ward. He wondered if Jack were getting ideas about moving some furniture of his own.

The spine prickles were back. Cas thought they might take up permanent residence.

_fin._


	3. Tentacles (wincestiel)

Sam and Dean stopped at the top of the bunker’s stairs–in that Dean was going down first, and stopped in his tracks, and Sam slammed into the back of him and had to stop him from falling. It was an appropriate stumble.

“Sam,” Castiel said. “Dean.” Like he always did, like this wasn’t–

“Uh, Cas,” Sam started, but Dean was ahead of him and said, “What the _fuck_?”

Cas sighed. “I was hoping you could help me figure that out,” he said, all gravelly evenness, like there _weren’t_ dozens of shining… arms, maybe was the word, sprawling out from inside his trenchcoat. They were moving, though Sam couldn’t tell if it was by Cas’s direction or on their own. Which was worse? he thought, and when they did reach the bottom of the stairs he kept his distance.

Cas half-sat on the map table, his mouth a flat line, and Dean drifted closer. “They appeared suddenly,” Cas said. “I had some difficulty traveling here. They kept trying to grab the steering wheel.”

Dean made a choking sound. “You got–” he said, and cleared his throat. “You got tentacles with a mind of their own, and they like to _drive?” _

With a frown, Cas shrugged, and when he did the arms all moved, too, writhing slow and almost–pretty, in a National Geographic way. They were a soft pink color, not like Cas’s own tan flesh, gentle as they wended through the open air. Sam wondered where they connected. One of them seemed more active, and while they watched it curled around Cas’s wrist, and then the tip curved up and pointed, almost. First at Dean, then at Sam.

“What the fuck,” Dean said, again, but breathy this time, and Sam was about to tell him to focus, but then Dean looked at Sam with his eyes huge and the pupils dilated enough they looked black, and he was–oh. His jeans looked tighter than they were ten minutes ago.

“Are you serious?” Sam said, but of course he was. Of course.

“Sammy,” Dean said, dazed, and Cas was frowning, not understanding, and Sam sighed, and said, “Okay, but _once_, all right, we don’t know if it’s communicable or if it’s a monster or if it can… I don’t know, lay eggs in us, or something,” and Cas said, “I’m sorry?” but Dean clamped his hand over his crotch and said, “Holy shit, don’t just _say_ shit like that, I almost–” and Sam clapped a hand over his mouth, and smiled at Cas, and resigned himself to seducing their only friend so Dean could live out that hentai fantasy he’d always wanted. It sucked, sometimes, how often their dumbest fantasies were possible. Freaking curses. So skeevy.

_fin._


	4. Daddy (Chuck/Lucifer)

“This is _no fair_,” Lucifer said, or what passed then for saying. His multivariable waveform twisted into a complex chain of subparticle motions which created a burst of celestial light. And lo, thought Chuck, sourly. There was light. “I can’t believe You!”

“You have to believe me,” Chuck said. He spun out a new galaxy. Plants only, he decided, vindictive. Zero angels required. “It’s literally the base of your existence.”

A scoff. “What-_ever_,” Lucifer said. The other three had disappeared, though of course Chuck knew and felt exactly where they were. Reasonable to hide behind some other star, though. Lucifer’s moods were supernovas. “There’s absolutely nothing that these stupid bacteria experiments can do that we can’t! Dad, come on. _Evolution? _These stupid things crawl out of the mud and turn into naked monkey-people? That’s just… gross.”

“You’re gross,” Chuck retorted, and then felt immediately like an idiot. If there were going to be conversations now, he had to come up with better comebacks. Especially with his (deeply irritating) kids.

Silence, for a little while. “Dad.” Chuck ignored this. “Dad.” Perhaps the new galaxy could use a built-in red giant event, just for flavor. A hiss, and then: “Daddy.”

Chuck wrinkled his nose. That tone was–new. “What?”

Lucifer’s waveform sparked into new math, a multiline equation of sinuous curves, wrapping in infinite dimensions around where Chuck sat creating. “Daddy,” he murmured, soft, sparking flickers of light across Chuck’s knuckles and thighs. “I wish there was something I could do for You. There’s nothing more You could need that You wouldn’t get right here at home.” The light limned Chuck’s hands and throat and his creation stuttered, the universe falling for a moment completely still.

With an impulse, Chuck plucked Michael back from the pinwheel galaxy. “Dude, _gross_,” Chuck said, while Lucifer screeched and writhed under Michael’s implacable grip. “Okay, you know what, you’re grounded, forever. I don’t need that. Get out of here.”

The dopplering shriek quieted as they sped away. It took a few seconds to construct a depthless dimension of darkness to stuff him into, but ick. Worth the wait. Chuck made a face and shuddered. “Ew,” he said, and went back to making. …Still, though. Maybe he could use that in a story.

_fin._


	5. Vibrator (Jack/Sam)

Jack was sitting crosslegged on the bed watching Avatar when Sam walked in. It was hard to tear his eyes away–the part where Zuko joined the rest of the gang was Jack’s favorite!–but the sound Sam made was distracting. “Hi, Sam,” he said, and knew he was smiling. It was involuntary, most of the time, when he saw Sam. His body did a lot of stuff without him telling it to. It was so weird.

Sam’s mouth hung open for a few seconds before he closed it. Jack raised his eyebrows, confused. “Jack,” Sam said, and it sounded as strangled as it had when Sam had literally been strangled by that demon last week. “What are you–doing?”

If Sam’s throat were still sore, maybe his brain had been hurt, too. Sam and Dean did hit their heads a lot. “I’m watching The Last Airbender,” Jack said, trying to help. “See? Aang and Zuko are going to be friends. I really like this part.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and smiled, but it looked like he was hurt. “I didn’t mean–okay. Um, Jack. What are you doing with–where did you get that?”

Jack blinked, and then looked where Sam was looking. “Oh!” he said, and held up the smooth thing. “When I couldn’t find the TV controller I looked in the bedside drawer, and this was in there, too. It’s weird, it doesn’t do anything but buzz. It feels nice, though.”

It did, and he’d been playing with it on and off all afternoon while he made his way through the show. Cas was gone, off doing something, and Dean hadn’t wanted any help doing whatever he was doing to their car, and Sam had been busy doing research until just now, so Jack had to entertain himself. The thing he’d found was long and shaped sort of like a hot dog, and when Jack turned the dial on the bottom it started up this smooth steady vibration. It felt good on his hand, and on his chest where he’d been idly rubbing it around while he watched the show. “See?” he said, to Sam, and flipped it to the buzz he liked best, where it was slow and rattly and sometimes had a thicker weird pulse. He held it up to his lips, loving the tickle of it. “It’s so cool. I really like this one.”

Sam swallowed. “Dean does, too,” he said, and it was strangled again. He stepped forward, and closed the door behind himself, and his cheeks were all red. “It feels good, huh?”

Jack shrugged. It did, and when he smiled the buzz felt like it was going right through his bones. “Tingles,” he said, and Sam nodded.

“Yeah, it does,” he said. He licked his lips, and it was quiet for a minute, the buzzing loud between them.

Well, if Sam was going to hang out with him, Jack didn’t really need to keep watching the show. He’d seen it before, after all. “Do you want to try?” he said. “We could take turns.” He didn’t get why Sam banged his head against the door. Sharing was the nice thing to do.

_fin._


	6. Flogging (Crowley/Rowena)

‘Twas quite a sweet wee spell, if Rowena _did_ say so herself. Most who might have had a valid opinion about the arcane work involved had been long-ago murdered, so there were few enough left who could say it–someone ought to, she thought. She examined her nails, done this week in a purple deep as galaxies. “Again,” she said, and the whipcrack was just delightful, coming out of nothing, straight from her will with no arm needed to wield it.

A groan, but not nearly pained enough. “Was that really necessary?”

Rowena raised her eyebrows. “Well, of course it was, my dear. The magic tells us so. And how do we know?”

A sigh. “Every time you think of something I’ve done to vex you, I earn a lash.” It’s said in a rote, schoolboy way. A bored child, not a supplicant begging for mercy. She purses her lips. A whipcrack, and a grunt. That’s better.

She shifts in her chair, her thighs pressing together. Mm. Successful spellcraft always does turn her blood to honey. “Mother,” he says, “really,” and she taps the rim of her teacup, and there’s two lashes in quick succession, for the condescension and the daring. Wee Fergus is the one strapped naked on his knees in this ridiculous dungeon he calls a throne room, and he isn’t the one on the throne. He could show a tad more respect.

“Not to mention,” she says, while he lifts his chin. Half-human, he’s sweating, but he’s got enough of the demon left in him that the pain’s something else. She pauses, and smiles at his also-ridiculous cock, lifting into the punishment. “Aw, Fergus. Wee boy. Feeling some affection for Mummy after all?”

He scoffs, but his eyes are nearly black, and not from the smoke inside him. She smiles, and goes back to what she was saying: “Not to _mention_, the time you forgot to pay the butcher and we didn’t have meat for two weeks.”

Fergus makes a face at her. “Mother, that was four hundred years ago. Have some perspective.”

“I had perspective on my griping belly!” she says, leaning forward. “What did you even do with the money?”

“I was seven! I was probably mugged by a random sailor! Why were you sending me to pay your bills in the first place?”

“Well,” she says, with a sniff. “You should have been more responsible. It’s a son’s duty to help his mother.” Another whipcrack, and Fergus lurches forward right in the middle of rolling his eyes. Rowena has a long, long list of transgressions to get through, and Fergus has quite a lot of borrowed skin that’s not yet bleeding, and neither of them can die. They’ve got plenty of time.

“Now,” she says, while he groans his way back upright. “Let’s talk about 1668, and who _exactly_ was meant to be watching the back door while Mother dealt with Mr. MacDonald and his lack of appreciation for the working woman.”

“A working woman is generally a laundress, not a spellworking whore,” Fergus says, and the next lash comes without Rowena even needing to think about it. She adds another cube of sugar to her tea, smiling. Oh, yes. ‘Tis a very, very sweet spell.

_fin._


	7. Aphrodisiacs (Sam/Gabriel, noncon)

Gabriel surveyed the table. He thought he’d done a pretty good job, honestly. “Okay, Sammy,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got… chile-spiced chocolate, we’ve got caramelized bananas–love that shape, baby!–we’ve got honey-dipped watermelon, we’ve got strawberries in balsamic glaze, we’ve got pomegranate cocktails, and we’ve got sweet, sweet cherry pie. There’s got to be something in here that’ll get your motor running.”

There was a grunt, and he turned around, confused, before he smacked his forehead. “Oh, duh,” he said. With a snap of his fingers Sam’s mouth unsealed. “Sorry! Forgot. You were just saying all that bad stuff, earlier.”

Sam’s jaw worked. “I wouldn’t have had to say the ‘bad stuff,’” he said, his voice very level, “if you hadn’t_ kidnapped_ me.”

Gabriel waved a hand. “Kidnapping, schmidnapping. Come _on_, Samwise, we gotta live a little here.” He sauntered over–and he’d perfected a good saunter, through the eons!–and sat on Sam’s knee. Tied up as he was to the big velvety throne, it was a nice seat. Sam couldn’t touch him of course, with his hands strapped behind him, but Gabriel gave him a big smile and the ol’ eyebrow waggle that had worked on countless past conquests. “Sam, Sam, Sam. Honey and chocolate and cherries? This is a pretty sweet deal we’ve got going. This is, like, bonafide archangelic seduction. I’ve got whipped cream I’m saving for later.”

All he was getting back was stoneface. Gabriel rolled his eyes. “You know, Dean said you were a hard sell,” he said, pouting. He snapped his fingers again and Sam’s clothes went the way of the dodo. Ooh, there it was. Ol’ Anaconda-Pants Winchester. “Here I am trying to woo you, Sam. You could at least give me a little something for the effort.”

Sam tipped his head back against the throne and clenched that magnificent jaw. Gabriel sighed. He’d had such _plans_ for the strawberries and honey. “Oh, well,” he said, and flicked Sam’s tan pretty chest over his hard, hard heart.

Instant mood reversal: Sam shuddered, and smiled, and oh hello, there, Mr. Anaconda. Gabriel smiled back, pinching his cheek. “Hey, good lookin’,” he said, and Sam licked his lips, his skin flushed and his eyes adoring. “Can I interest you in a little cream?”

“Gabe,” Sam breathed, overcome and straining, and Gabriel grinned. That was more like it. When aphrodisiacs wouldn’t work, then heck, it was a job for good ol’ mind control!

_fin._


	8. Tights (Dean/Crowley)

The young lady currently assisting (soul at perhaps 30% tarnish, not yet consigned to the pit) offered a tray with a single glass of champagne. “Thank you, darling,” Crowley said, slouching further into his seat, and while she skittered away he raised his voice to be heard behind the thick velvet curtain. “Is there any chance at all, dear chum, that we might be finished sometime this month?”

“Hold your horses,” came the shout back, and Crowley rolled his eyes to the ceiling. For the number of times he had to hear that godforsaken phrase, he should have every winner at Belmont in his stable. “Anyway, what, you got a schedule? You’re the king, tell ‘em to take a number.”

“Oh, I have, darling,” Crowley muttered, and sipped his champagne. The number of roiling dilemmas bubbling up from hell could’ve stopped a phalanx of angels mid-flight. He really didn’t know what was the matter with him. It was long-past time to get some things done, and here he sat. Admittedly on a delightfully plush little loveseat, admittedly holding a crisp chilled flute of Veuve Clicquot, admittedly in one of the best boutiques in the world that could be reached without leaving the good ol’ continental US of A–but there were souls to tarnish, and murders to commit, and he was about done indulging this particular brand of timewasting. He was about to say so when the curtain drew back, and he entirely lost his tongue.

Of the two brothers Winchester, Moose might indeed be the giant, but Squirrel was the one with the real legs. Dean stood with his hands on his nearly-bare hips, chin high, grinning. “Worth the wait, huh?” he said, newly-feral smile broad on his face, and it… was, Crowley had to say, much as he hated to. A ridiculous cherry-red corset snugged around his waist, a pair of barely-there black mesh panties hugging his pretty cock up against his body, but really, the pièce de résistance was the garter belt in cherry lace, and the black satin ties running down to catch the black lace tops of those stockings, and the pretty red bows on those thighs, and how those stockings went all the way down to the floor on those long, long legs.

The shop girl made a tiny, strangled noise, and Dean’s grin shifted to her and went even more dangerous. His smoked-up soul filled his eyes edge to edge and she rushed out of the back area, her silver platter clattering on the floor behind her. Crowley cleared his throat. “Have you made your selection, then, darling?” he said, trying to keep his voice level. Good lord, he thought, and nearly crossed himself from the reverse blasphemy. “We really do have some things to do.”

“Ugh,” Dean said, and when he rolled his eyes they turned back into that obsession-worthy green. He turned and admired himself in the mirror, apparently checking the fit. Not much left to the imagination on that pretty arse, as it turned out. “Aren’t we supposed to be letting loose? Having fun? You promised me a howl at the moon.”

Crowley watched his back arch. He hadn’t exactly been anticipating lingerie shopping when he made the promise. Worth it, though. Possibly. “That I did, darling,” he said, and met Dean’s smile in the mirror with one of his own. “Do take your time.”

“Kickass,” Dean said, and whirled the curtain shut again. Through the velvet, he shouted, “Let’s get barbecue after this!”

“Oh, do let’s,” Crowley muttered, adjusting his vessel’s cock inside his trousers. Louder, he called, “Miss? If you haven’t fainted or taken up a life in a nunnery, why don’t you bring me the whole bottle? There’s a good girl.”

_fin._


	9. Pet Play (Sam, Gadreel, Metatron)

In a borrowed face, Gadreel sat on the park bench generated by Sam’s mind and watched his host, pleased with himself. Metatron rippled into existence a few moments later, wearing a cardigan and looking bewildered.

“What… is this?” Metatron said.

Sam was surrounded by a passel of dogs, of various breeds and sizes. He had an array of toys to hand: balls, frisbees, something that Sam’s memories told Gadreel was inexplicably called a ‘kong.’ Sam’s memories from long ago had also indicated that Sam would be in paradise with this situation; his current expression seemed tied between confusion, amusement, and impatience as he threw yet another ball. “It is pet play,” said Gadreel. “Your idea, Metatron, was a good one. Now, Sam is distracted inside his mind, and cannot investigate in a way that will jeopardize my position.”

Metatron’s face twitched, oddly. “Right,” he said, and looked at Gadreel in a way odder still. “Well, buddy, whatever works for you. Hate to see what you would’ve done with scissoring!”

_fin._


	10. Toys (wincest, Charlie)

The detente had gone on for months now. It started with the idle comment, thrown out without any real feeling: _bet you wouldn’t be able to handle it_. Dean had, of course, taken it like a challenge.

First there was the Mystic Mini, found in the clearance section. Mini was a bit of a misnomer; it was still almost seven inches long, and looked pretty imposing when Sam ran into it suction-cupped to the fridge at eye-height. Next was a retaliatory Elliot, curved and black and waiting on Dean’s chair in the library, and he did actually almost sit on it before he noticed, and didn’t let out a scream at all, thanks very much. The distressingly ridged Ridley came next, thick enough at the base to almost replicate Sam’s fist and lurking in his sink when he went to brush his teeth. An Ika followed, with its tentacular stylings, waiting in the Impala’s trunk right next to Dean’s favorite sawed-off, and that one he saw when he was about to intimidate a cop and almost had a heart attack.

That led to a brief cooling-off, until April 1 rolled around, at which point the collection (minus the Ika, for whatever reason) migrated to Sam’s dresser and was waiting for him, distressingly, when he woke up that morning. The dragon-like Meng swiftly arrived, nestled in with the shampoo and body wash in Dean’s caddy, imposingly scaled and rearing high. In response, a mottled horsey Tucker, about the length of Sam’s forearm, plopped right onto his laptop, hard enough to budge that the suction took off the spacebar. The last contender was one left with a big bow on the coffee maker: the Demogorgon, huge and enough to make the gut hurt just looking at it, and Dean laughed hard enough when he saw the name that Sam broke and grinned, too, and the joke had kind of worn thin at that point, especially because Sam had walked into the shower room at one a.m. just thinking to lull himself to sleep with the steam and had seen Dean putting the Ika to use, and that had shifted things in their relationship, somewhat, so the dildo cold war didn’t seem quite as funny.

That part was left out of the explanation, though Charlie probably could have guessed. She was mainly stuck in place, staring, at the roster of toys stuck to the top of the refrigerator, forgotten until a visitor came. “Uh,” she said, while Dean blushed and Sam looked like he might just give up and die, right then. “…Do you guys get like a frequent buyer discount, at least?”

Dean didn’t seem capable of speech. Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, yeah,” he said, strained. “15% off.”

Charlie licked her lips. “Nice,” she said, and tried to ignore their shiny protuberance. 

_fin._


	11. Formal Wear (Michael!Dean/Sam)

The world in which apocalypse came was… difficult. Many generations murdered, and his vile brother destroyed, and the lands laid waste with brimstone and angelic fire, and though Michael lacked his true sword he had done his best. Sadly, it had not been enough to win his Father back to him, and through the years he grew ever more bitter. It didn’t help that this world… stank, of the mud of those few remaining monkeys and the remaining sulfur of the unforgiven, and on top of everything else he was stuck in this inadequate vessel, in a jacket of canvas. _Canvas_, and his workman’s shirt riddled with holes. What a thing to be forced to bear, as the radiating brightest light of Heaven. 

He could hardly believe his luck when that other world impinged on his. He stepped through and it was cleaner, brighter, even the sun shining a new color. A different lens, to view another of his Father’s bastard creations. Manipulating his way into his true Sword was the work of a moment–alas, more canvas–and destroying a ridiculous facsimile of his brother was even easier. Then, at _last_–

Sleek, cashmere-blend wool; a fine-combed cotton shirt, soft as dreams; a real tie, at _last_, and not one of the ridiculous bolo things one of his underlings had brought him in that otherworld. Finally, his real self, shined and sharp as a knife. Gorgeous. He spent a lot of time, the first few weeks in his new perfect vessel, simply staring into the mirror. This is what he was meant to be, at last.

Unfortunately–

The rest of the world frankly failed to live up to expectations. In his Sword’s shape he had a lifetime of memories of grotesque eateries with vinyl seating, of low-end plastic-bottled alcohol swilled in to repeatedly corrode the liver. Sad, really. He was an archangel. There were _appearances_ to maintain. On top of everything else, the sexual partners his vessel had been through were… frankly depressing. No class, no fashion. There had been a brief possibility with that female named Bela and her appreciation for diamonds, but his Sword was apparently not the brightest and had let the opportunity slip by.

Michael lamented. He couldn’t simply accept any dog. There were standards below which he should not have to slip. It seemed, every day, as though he may never be able to truly experience this world.

In his spotless apartment high above the filthy Manhattan streets he stood in his perfect suit, in his perfect unblemished body, in his perfect hat. He’d spent quite a bit of time picking out this hat. It was everything it should have been, and this Earth frankly failed to measure up to his beauty.

The door swung open, as he knew it would. “Sam,” he said, sighing, and prepared to turn and smite, but then his vessel gasped of its own accord.

Sam stood haloed in the doorway. His hair had been styled, immaculate, and he wore a tuxedo. Not just any tuxedo. With his superior knowledge of fashion Michael knew that it was a Brioni, stitched with white gold, and it was of course tailor-made, hugging Sam’s figure to perfection. Michael swallowed. “The cufflinks?” he said, strained.

“Cartier,” Sam said, smoothly, walking closer. “Sapphires.”

Michael fell to his knees, grateful. At last. “Sam,” he breathed, and Sam touched his cheek. At last, at last. 

*

Sam hadn’t believed it, but here he lay, post-orgasmic, with an archangel cuddled up to him and cooing and complimenting his haircut. It had been Rowena’s idea, and Sam had to give it to her: when she was right she was right. It was a weird way to accomplish world peace, but he’d take it. Who knew that the thing possessing his brother was this much of a fashion bitch.

_fin._


	12. Cross-dressing (Raphael, Sam, Dean)

Raphael appeared coursing with lightning, ozone crackling and burning, fury stretching his wings to their utmost. Finally he had found them–these upstart, ridiculous Winchesters would be his. He raised his hand, prepared to snap their necks and lay waste to this stupid land. Apocalypse, at last.

Dean frowned. “Who are you?”

“I am my Father’s last loyal son,” Raphael snarled. “The only one remaining who understands the righteousness of destiny.”

Dean still frowned, and looked at Sam, who appeared to be doing math in his head. “Raphael?” Sam said, unsure.

“Yes!” Raphael’s wings crackled. “Know your end, Winchesters.”

He breathed in what should have been their fear and was met instead with confusion, and then amusement. “Uh, dude,” Dean said, lowering his gun. “You might want to check on the whole ‘son’ situation. You’ve got real nice boobs for a guy.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, and Dean shrugged and said, “What? It’s true. I mean, I don’t judge, but–”

Raphael’s fury smote a fat raccoon attempting to enter the alleyway. The Winchesters appeared unfazed. “The shape of my vessel is of no consequence,” he said.

“No, for sure,” Dean said, clearly trying not to smile. “You do you, live your truth. So it’s just, you know. If you’re a son, you’re not _really_ a woman, you’re just trying out the whole dress and heels and vagina thing. Just crossdressing, right? Not a sex change.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, seriously. Angels don’t even really have gender, how could he be a transvestite?”

Raphael blinked, looking down. It was a perfectly reasonable suit. His previous vessel had been incinerated, so he went to the next available member of the bloodline. He wasn’t sure why it was causing such comment.

By now Dean wasn’t paying Raphael any attention, hands on hips as he talked to Sam. “I mean, he says he’s a dude, and he’s dressed as a lady. I don’t know what else that would be, Sam.”

“I mean–he’s not really a _he_, either, you know? It’s not like–what does Cas say? Principalities? Wavelengths? Whatever they are–it’s not like they’re assigned to a sex identity at birth. They just have gender when they’re in people shapes.”

“Okay, but why do they always refer to themselves as _sons_? C’mon, man.”

“I don’t know!” Sam said, throwing up his hands. He squinted at Raphael, speculative. “I guess it doesn’t even matter that he’s in a person at all. If he was really crossdressing it’d be… the opposite of what he’s supposed–” (here, Sam made quote shapes in the air with his fingers) “–to present as, right?” Dean gave him a look, and Sam waved a hand. “I took this gender theory class at Stanford, it was really interesting. But if it’s that, then maybe transvestism for an angel would be… dressing as a demon? Not a bunch of light, but shadows?”

Dean snorted. “That’d be rich.” He looked at Raphael, grinning. “Yo, Ninja Turtle, dress up as Crowley next time if you wanna get your transvesty rocks off. Get the goofy accent and everything.”

Raphael seethed. Truly, he thought, the world could not be crushed down to dust too soon.

_fin._


	13. Dirty Talk (wincest)

The witch’s spell wasn’t working out exactly like Dean had expected.

“Oh, Sammy,” he said, “you are so tall.” Sam grimaced. Yeah, it was pretty sad. “Your body has proportions that please me.”

“Your body also pleases me,” Sam said, and sat down, and put his head in his hands. His next sentence came out muffled. “We should create friction with our penises.”

“Penis friction is pleasurable,” Dean said, wishing somehow that he could just fully remove his voicebox. Being mute would be better than this. “However, repeated insertion of my penis into your oral cavity could also be pleasurable.”

Sam looked up, and blinked. “It is possible,” he said, careful, “that orgasms could be produced if we continue in this manner. Then, perhaps, our mutual curse could be dissolved.”

Dean licked his lips. Sam’s eyes went straight to his mouth, as usual. Typical. Well, shit, maybe this really would work. “Perhaps,” he tried, “if we repeatedly inserted our penises into each other’s oral cavities simultaneously…”

A slow flush started to climb Sam’s cheeks. What a freak. “Perhaps after that,” he said, staring at Dean, “you could hover on your knees above my oral cavity and my muscle of food manipulation and tasting could moisten your anal opening.”

Jeez, that was an image. Dean’s dick woke up, ready to join the party–and Sam was revved up already, he could tell by the monster bulge starting in those jeans. Who knew Spock-speak would be hot. Dean started to unbutton his shirt, and said: “It is a good thing that we agree on a mutual appreciation of each other’s physical appearance and coital talent.”

Sam hauled both shirts over his head at once and grabbed Dean by the hips, pulling him in. “It is good,” he said, fervently, and squeezed Dean’s ass, looking up. “Remove your lower garment. I would like to begin the oral cavity insertion immediately.”

Fuckin’ a, Dean’s dick seemed to say, his balls pulsing. The curse was going to get dusted pretty fast, he figured, and they’d both be normal dudes and back to their usual seductive talents. Even so, he thought maybe he could get Sammy to roleplay as a medical alien, sometime soon. Maybe for his birthday.

_fin._


	14. Praise Kink (Dean/Alastair)

There weren’t all that many demons who actually enjoyed the Pit. Alastair thought they were missing out. Sure, it wasn’t exactly like there were roses everywhere you looked, but oh boy were there plenty of thorns to keep your interest. One particular thorn, in particular, that pricked and pricked.

“Oh, now,” he cooed, leaning in to check Dean’s work. “Now, there’s a _very _good boy indeed. Look at that blade work.”

Dean didn’t want to give Alastair the satisfaction of smiling–he was an adorably stubborn thing, that way–but Alastair had personally shredded his soul far more than six ways from Sunday, and he knew the blossom of pleasure that bloomed up. His little apprentice, doing his duty.

He fit his imagined hand around Dean’s throat and backed him up, away from the rack, back and back until his naked skin hit the wood of the waiting cross. “Our righteous boy,” he said, his shape effortlessly taller than Dean’s self-image, and Dean tipped up his chin and breathed the non-air and flushed pink and pinker, red from his ears to his throat to the blood all over his hands. “You’ve done such good, good work for me. Haven’t you, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you,” Dean said, and the power of hell was that his body ached with wanting, even when he hated it. Especially when he hated it.

Alastair smiled at him, squeezed. Caught Dean’s hand when he tried to spin the razor, and held it up to his own throat. “You’d do such a good job on me, I know you would,” he said, and Dean arched, gasping. “Get all up in my guts, huh. Take me apart.”

“Yes,” Dean whispered, suffocating.

He was so good, and so easy now, after all that time to break him. “You’re perfect,” Alastair said, and Dean clutched at him, and was getting closer every day to believing it.

_fin._


	15. Cuckolding (Sam/Amelia, Don)

It had been a lot of work for Don to get back to his wife. It was working out okay. He had a part-time job at the Home Depot, helping out in the lumber department; he went to therapy twice a week to help out with the PTSD. He didn’t talk much about what had happened while he was MIA, because Amelia didn’t need to hear it. What she needed was for him to be around, and he was around. They had a house, and a dog, even if Don hadn’t really been around to pick them out. They were nice enough. He had a life. It was fine.

It could’ve been better, though, and that was something that itched at the back of Don’s mind for six months before he finally got some relief. They were just sitting there, and Jimmy Fallon was hyuck-hyucking about something, and Riot was being a good sleepy dog, and Amelia brought him a beer, and when he looked up there was movement behind the curtain. Holy shit. Sam.

He really hadn’t gotten to talk to Sam much–more’s the pity, he seemed like a good dude–and he knew that Amelia had been real torn about what to do, when Don came back and she’d set up this whole other life. The house, the dog. The man. Taller than Don, and buffer than Don, and who knows what else. Don had just left what to do in Amelia’s hands–seemed kindest–but then Sam went and took the decision out of _all _of their hands by disappearing in the middle of the night. So maybe a better man than Don, too. Who knew? Don hadn’t had the chance to see, and ever after Amelia refused to talk about it. So, they went on.

He pretended to go out into the shed to work on his latest carving project after Fallon, and watched Amelia sneak out of the house and disappear. Oh man. If what he hoped was happening was happening–but she came back, and he had to go and get ready for bed and pretend like things were hunky-dory. Later, when she snuck out _again_, he was laying awake, and he waited two minutes and then practically sprinted out of the house to follow her.

The motel–of course, the motel. There was some junker parked in front of one of the rooms, and Amelia’s sedan there too, and the curtain wasn’t pulled all the way, and Don could hardly believe his luck, now. He parked on the street, and it was past midnight so there was exactly no one around to see him sidle through the lot, to stand outside the window, to peek into the two inches of view he was afforded. Oh–hot damn, yes.

They were already half-naked, Amelia’s shirt shoved off over her shoulders and Sam unbuckling his belt, leaning down to kiss her. He kissed–jeez, like he wasn’t thinking about a single other thing, and Amelia was gasping for it, her face all pink and her hands grasping at his plaid shirt like she couldn’t do anything else. Sam got his jeans open and she dove in, gripping at him and pulling him out, and–oh, fuck, Don gripped at his own crotch, because Sam’s dick was bigger, so much bigger, and he was just… everything anyone could want, and Don’s wife wanted him, and Don could not in any way blame her. They moved to the bed, and Sam sat and Amelia started to strip, and Sam held his dick and watched her and knew, Don could see, Sam _knew_ that he was going to fuck her and it was going to be good, and Don went to his knees next to the room window and tried not to just jerk off right here in public and settled down for a show. Hot damn. Maybe this’d convince Sam to move back to Kermit. Maybe this was the sort of thing Don could look forward to, every week. A man could hope!

_fin._


	16. Hotdogging (Sam/Dean)




	17. Boot Worship (Ketch/Hess, underage, dubcon)

Ketch was quite comfortable, on his knees. He had long practice, of course–public school was like that–and Father had given him plenty of training. How to stay very still, how to hold position. A switch across the shoulders was a wonderful aide to instruction.

Now at Kendricks, he’d spent a little less time kneeling and rather more being knelt _to_, but the talent never went away. It was like, as the Americans apparently said, ‘riding a bicycle.’ He wasn’t sure of the comparison, never having been on one of the ridiculous things. Father said they were childish, and of course that was true, because Dr. Hess agreed. If Father and Hess were in accord, Ketch knew, then that was that.

Hess was his compass north now, almost always, since he saw Father only on the Saturnalia break. It was in her office that he waited now, on the bare stone before the fireplace, and the room was cold other than where the fire’s warm licked at his bare shoulder. He was patient, but he did wonder where she was. Soon enough he’d have contusions from prolonged contact with the stone, and that’d be an easy target for the surviving boys in his year. Well. _Quite_ easy, at any rate. Ketch would certainly make them work for it.

At last, the door swung open. He kept his eyes pointed directly to the front, his shoulders relaxed. “Hm,” Hess said, and walked from the door with her heels thudding into the carpet to the bare area where he waited. A brief moment of inspection. “Very good, Arthur.” 

He was very well-trained; he knew better than to respond. She sat in front of him at last, in her heavy armchair, and crossed her legs at the knee. Wool suit, tall boots, her hair severe. He didn’t shift his gaze, but he could see that she was looking at him sternly. “Now, then,” she said. “Kendricks has been impressed with you, Arthur. You passed your test to eliminate the weaker members of your class with flying colors; your coursework is superb. Now that you have celebrated your fourteenth birthday, you have choices.”

A pause. “Choices, ma’am,” Ketch said, polite.

No strike from the crop she held; it was right to ask. “We all have choices, every day,” she said, a touch sardonic. Ketch straightened his spine, he hoped imperceptibly. “Yours here are simpler. You may continue as a normal student of Kendricks and devote yourself to spellcraft and research, as most do. However, for students of a particular aptitude as you have proved to be, we do have another track. To walk that path requires dedication, and ruthlessness, and utmost loyalty to our cause. Do you have those things, Arthur?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It wasn’t necessary to fawn and scrape. It was true, and he knew it to be true, and she did, too, by the brief nod she gave.”Very good,” she said, and then she did strike him, hard across his bare chest, and the crop was the one with that hidden sliver of silver she favored and so he bled, in a thin line across his left pectoral. He didn’t move. She hit him again, on the stomach, and then again on his bare hip, and again on the inside of his right thigh, leaving scores that would drip onto the stone if he wasn’t told to move. She watched his face for a change of expression, which he didn’t give because he knew better. It stung, but bodies were–vessels. Jars needed to carry one around. They were necessary, but manipulable, and Arthur knew how to use his well. It was why he’d been able to stay silent when Father had come into his room, those years ago; it was why he’d been able to turn the tables on Hammond in the fifth year after months of him doing the same; it was how he’d been able to kill Monty, last year, easily. It was all just bodies. It was what was in the mind that counted.

Hess nodded, again. “You will show loyalty,” she said, and uncrossed her legs, and placed her boot between his knees, the pointed toe very close to his soft cock. “In the manner of old.”

He knew this, too. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and bent at the waist, and breathed soft over the shining mahogany leather before he pressed his lips there. He licked, and the taste was bitter. The crop came to rest on his shoulder. He knew soon his jaw would ache, and he could guess what might come, from the smell of her body. He licked again, higher, and settled in. He was patient, but this would be easy. Loyalty was simple to demonstrate, when one felt it so much.

_fin._


	18. Glory Hole (Dean/John)

The place was grimy and slimy and had a real funky smell, honestly, and that was just the parking lot. If that and the suspiciously blank facade wasn’t enough to put a man off, John didn’t think the interior would really phase them. Like most of these highway “adult” stores, it wasn’t so much for adults as it was for skuzzy, furtive men. A lot of truck drivers, a lot of dudes who didn’t look like they maybe did so well with the ladies in town and were trying their luck with the celluloid kind. Not a few clean cut guys, though, either, which always made John smile. Like that old joke, about how Baptists never recognize each other in the liquor store. He didn’t judge, though, much. Plenty for a man to feel lonely about, and he’d bought his share of magazines to help him through harder nights.

The glossies weren’t why he came to these places, though. Way more often than not, the proprietor tended to know something about something. Here, on a stretch of highway outside of an easy to forget town in Ohio, Martell who ran the place was also a decent small arms dealer, and his cousin ran a pawn that dealt in all sorts of silver, and both of them kept their ear to the ground and could be counted upon for decent rumors of the sort John trafficked in. John tended to stop by, anytime he and his boys were out in this part of the country. He always needed more silver bullets. The hints of sulfur were a bonus.

At the counter, Martell was helping a customer of the more normal kind, and had a line two deep of nervous guys in too-big coats; John held back. He looked at a rack of magazines: big-breasted women, big-dicked men. Not really worth all the glossy excitement of the text.

“Hey, buddy,” he heard, and turned with his eyebrows already raised. Not a lot of good came with that phrase. A man, maybe John’s age, clearly a few drinks in, smiling loopy. “You here for the ride?”

“The ride,” John said. He wondered if he was going to sock this guy one. Martell might not be happy about that.

Guy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t even gotta pay,” he said. “Marty up there covered the fee! Though tips are _appreciated._” He made quotes in the air, licked his lips. “Worth a look, buddy.”

John stared as the guy weaved his way out the door, and looked at the big wooden partition. Martell had done under the table deals with him back there before; he didn’t realize it was now the entertainment section. He glanced up front, where Martell was still busy, and shrugged. Plenty of time.

The partition had been turned into a little hallway, with cheap siding and a screen. Around the corner, a pop-up room like John remembered, now with a hole cut in the door, and scribbled above it in sharpie: FREE FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES. SLIDE TIPS UNDER DOOR. 

“Never understood what was so glorious about these things,” John said, out loud, and there was a thump against the door. He grinned. “Didn’t mean to scare you. That a girl back there? Or a guy?”

Silence. Well, fair enough. Most men would probably go limp at the idea. “Guess that means I won’t get a name either, huh,” he said, and then knocked gentle against the cheap wood. “Just kiddin’. Hope you’re not trying to feed yourself like this, though. Martell better be paying you good.” No answer, again, and John did wonder. Didn’t seem like Martell’s type of business. But, then again, whether it was or not, and whoever this was or not, that wasn’t any of John’s. Beyond: “Hey, there,” he said, quieter. “Serious. You being made to? Knock one time for yes, two for no.” Silence, and he put his hand against the door. “I got a gun, and there’s those who are scared of me. I can get you out, if you need it.”

A pause, and two soft knock. John nodded. This wasn’t really his type of thing, but the _free_ did make him wonder. If it was the girl–or boy’s–kink, maybe. Just wanting it, and wanting it quiet and dark and easy, no strings. That, now. His gut felt warm, just thinking about it. That, he could see. “Hope it’s good,” he said, and ran his thumb against the hole. Cut smooth, and covered up in a thick layer of packing tape, so there’d be no abrading. He leaned his temple against the door, talking low. “That what you like? No one seeing? Just using you?”

A single knock, coming a little faster this time. He smiled, and pushed two fingers through the hole. “Show me,” he said, firm, and got a puff of warm moist breath before soft, puffy lips closed around his fingertips, and a slick push of hot mouth sucked him in, down to the knuckles before they were stopped by the door. A tiny moan, more felt in the vibration than even heard, and the mouth dragged back, and pushed down again, fucking itself on him. “Good,” John said, and got the tiniest scrape of teeth before there was another moan, louder this time, and a knock against the door. His dick was taking an interest, now, and he wondered–maybe–

“John-boy!” came Martell’s call, back behind the partition. “Store’s empty. Unless you’re jerkin’ off back there, come and let’s make a deal.”

“Ah,” John said, and took his fingers back. “Duty calls.” He actually was a little disappointed, but it was for the best. His fingers gleamed, in the dim light–he wanted to stick them in his mouth, just to see, but better sense prevailed and he wiped them on his hip instead. He stuck a five under the door, anyway. “You have a good night, now,” he said, and went out to get his bullets, and to hear about a very interesting potential hunt with a wraith.

When he came back to the motel, Sam was watching TV, surly, alone. “Where’s your brother?” John said, and Sam rolled his eyes–it was like at fourteen he’d decided to take it as his mission to roll his eyes as much as possible–and said, “Out, I think he said there was some girl he wanted to meet.”

John snorted. Well, Dean was responsible. “Pack up,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “We’re leaving in the morning.” Sam sighed, ridiculous, and John ignored it. When Dean got back, maybe they’d have another conversation about how a kid was meant to behave.

_fin._


	19. Shotgunning (Sam/Jessica, Brady)

Jessica inhaled, and tried to hold it in–she really did. Too quickly, it dissolved into coughing. God, that burned!

“Baby, you really don’t have to,” Sam said, somewhere behind the sparky blur of tears.

She waved her hand. “It’s okay,” she gasped, and it really didn’t sound okay when she said it that way. She tried to breathe normally, tried to stop her lungs spasming. “Seriously. It’s okay. It’s supposed to be tough the first time, right?”

Sam looked at her worriedly, didn’t seem to agree. Okay, so what did he know. Apparently like half his childhood he was out camping around fires, or something, so of course he was more used to smoke than her. She passed the joint back to him, feeling irritated instead of high. “You try,” she said, and he shrugged and took it back, and held it to his lips.

She knew smoking was bad. Pot shouldn’t count, but still, it was putting smoke into your lungs. Any dumbass could figure out that wasn’t a good idea. Even so, it was kinda–hot. Sam, all long and tan, long bangs hanging into his eyes and long long fingers, holding the joint careful and sipping at the end, his lashes low. Okay, yeah. Tingles in her fingertips and thighs, all of a sudden. So it was kind of working for her, no matter how dumb this was.

Sam blew out a plume of smoke, up at the red-tinted haze of her bedroom ceiling, and smiled. “Wow,” he said, and it sounded somehow–far away. Like he wasn’t even here with her. Her mouth twisted, and after a second he saw it, and leaned forward. “Hang on, I’ve got an idea.”

“What,” she said, little irritation still niggling, and he said, “Hang on,” again, and then, “This’ll be good, this is how I smoked, first time,” and took another big puff at the joint and then held the thing away from himself, mouth pinched tight. He waved his hand at her, beckoned her closer, and she leaned in obedient because Sam had that way about him–and he caught her by the back of the neck and ducked down and pressed his mouth to hers, and she opened her lips because Sam kissing her was always the right thing to do, and when she did there was an immediate gout of that weird, green-tasting, funky smoke, purling into her mouth like Sam was–a dragon, or something. She breathed in, startled, and it was like he was going right inside her–and oh, the taste was–different–until she actually inhaled for real and started coughing. Again.

“God,” she said, between hacks, “_damn_ it.”

Sam patted her shoulder, apologetic. “Sorry, baby,” he said. “Maybe you’re, um, allergic, or something.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Brady said, concerned, from the corner. “No hanging out around fires for you, Jess.”

A little sarcastic, Jess thought. Man, that did burn.

_fin._


	20. Fail

This is literally just accountability. I missed this day.


	21. Swallowing (Sam/Ruby)

She didn’t mind this new meatsuit. She’d never been particularly attached to one before. She preferred women, because she’d been a woman when she was human, before–and women did have it easier when manipulating men, which was what she’d spent her whole short first life and the much longer second learning to do, and do well. For Sam, she’d tried a pretty blonde at first, thinking it might remind him of the dead girl–tried Dean’s attitude alongside it, thinking it would win him to her faster–but neither worked as well as she would have hoped. The second body she wore with Sam was a nonstarter, in his grief–oh, but the third. The third, she was a winner.

Manipulation was her strong suit, but the only way to manipulate was to be an expert observer, and she could see the way Sam looked at this little body long before he got to try it out. Funny. The dead girl had been tall–Dean was tall, and strong too–but then, those were loves, not lusts, and she knew that Sam felt too big sometimes, too rough and too dangerous–and knew, too, that at the same time he was nice with the little women he was so careful around, he wanted sometimes to be–uncareful. To be dangerous.

She has him, now. He drinks her blood. He fucks her. He hates her, too, but that’s all right, because she knows how to use that (and thinks that, maybe one day, when everything happens–when all that they’ve worked for comes true–she’ll be able to change his mind, there, when his heart is no longer his own). Her little body, her hateful black soul, it’s such an easy target. He doesn’t worry about hurting her because she’s dead, and she’s the enemy. Sam kisses her like an attack, he bites her lips until she bleeds. When he’s ready to fuck he throws her onto her back or her belly, or shoves her up against a wall so her forearms scrape the brick, or pushes her onto a table and leans his weight into her back and bruises her hips against the edge, her face crushed sideways against the shitty linoleum, her body jolting, her breath puffing pointless and hot, her mouth tugged into a smile. She knows the smile only makes him angrier, hotter. She smiles anyway.

Sam’s dick is as big as the rest of him. She wonders if he was careful, with those other girls. With the dead girl. With– but they don’t talk about that, because there’s a line she knows she isn’t allowed to cross, no matter how many she tries to drag him over. It’s enough that she opens a vein for him and he drinks from it until his teeth are rimmed in dark-smoked red, and then he’s full of her and vicious and he rips at her, wants her. Wants _her_. Sometimes it takes him in a mood where he’s not rough, but bloodily confident, and he’ll shove her down and pull off her jeans and eat her out, thorough and perfect, and she’ll come rippling, and he won’t let up until she does it for him again, and again, as much as he feels like, because he’s in charge. She lets him feel like he’s in charge. Sometimes then, after, he’ll slide up her body and shove that big dick into her, and she’s so loose it doesn’t hurt, and he’ll make her come that way, too, watching her face to make sure, and it works, of course it does, because she was made for Sam in every way.

She likes it best, though, when he’s done feeding and he’s almost drunk with the power coursing through him–when he’s dazed for a second, and looks at her with his eyes black (nearly perfect)–she’ll slip down to her knees, and undo his jeans, and suck him down. Big, big all over, and she can break this body’s bones to fit him but it’s better, hurts right, if she strains over it, if she makes her jaw ache trying to take him, if he bumps at the pit of her throat, too small for him to fit, but she can force it, gagging, tears flooding her eyes. He hesitates, then–for a second that she loves–because she’s small, and he’s so big, and she’s vulnerable on her knees–but she’ll look up at him with her eyes streaming and let them go black, and then he remembers, and his hand will go tight in her hair and he’ll shove his hips in, batter past her resistance, making her ears ring and her vision blur until she goes lightheaded, sloppy, her body made into a wreck–and he’ll blow in her throat, creaming her carelessly, and force her head down to pump it deep, make her take it–and then after he’ll slump back, brain coming back online the way men’s brains do once they’ve shot their load and remember what they’re doing, what they’ve done, and he’ll look at her horrified, at her tear-tracks and her cracked lip and the sloppy spit over her chin, the bruises coming up on her neck, on her jaw where he held her too hard.

“Ruby,” he’ll say, almost apologetic, and she’ll smile at him, and push her fingers down into her panties, and when she swallows it _hurts_, oh fuck it hurts, the flesh abraded and battered and sore, and she’ll come then, jerking, crumpled at his feet.

_fin._


	22. Crying (wincest)

When it started, they’d just cruised back into _that_ town, and Sam felt his chest constrict and his nose start to run and his eyes get that hot, sore feeling, and he said out loud, “What the—” but instead of sounding like himself he was soft, breathy, and he couldn’t even finish with the _fuck_ he wanted to say before he was bursting into tears.

“Jesus!” Dean said, and gripped his shoulder. Sam couldn’t see—his eyes were a flood, everything coming blurry and indistinct. “Sammy? Sam, talk to me, what’s going on.”

The car swerved, slowed, stopped, and Sam couldn’t talk, just taking huge hiccupy breaths that let out in sobs. “G-god,” he managed to get out, finally. Dean was touching his chest, his hair, grabbing his chin. “D-Dean, there’s—something—”

He couldn’t get it out, the physical sensation overpowering. “Sammy,” Dean said, distant, and he sounded uncertain, worried, but the thing was—the thing was—

Sam groped for the glovebox, found pen and stolen motel notepad; hiccuped, and wept, and wrote blind and he-hoped legibly. 

“This isn’t me?” Dean read out, confused, and Sam nodded, and curled over, his stomach aching from the tears. He wrote more, and Dean said, “You’re not—sad?”

“No-o-o-o,” Sam managed, in a big sobby boo-hoo, and Dean said, “What?” and then said, “Oh, fuck,” and then he shoved Sam’s shoulder, lightly, and said, “We’re back in this stupid town!” and Sam nodded, and cried, and wondered what awful fangirl they’d pissed off this time.

*

Last time, it had been the weird sex curse, working out a really shitty fanfiction story for one of Chuck’s books. “I don’t get it,” Dean said, while Sam curled on his side on the motel bed and wailed. He wasn’t bothering to comfort Sam anymore, now they knew it was fake, and he paced back and forth. “I mean, last time you were all—like, sexy He-man, and I got turned into a bottom princess.”

Sam rolled onto his back, tears streaming into his hair. “You are,” he whispered, his voice shredded, and Dean said, “Ha ha, bitch, very funny,” and Sam would’ve grinned but he, of course, couldn’t. 

“So, this can’t be the same girl, right? Is there, like—a faction or something? Girls who like you all buff fuckmonster, girls who like you all… _this_?”

Sam didn’t know, and couldn’t answer even if he did. He was getting dehydrated. He hiccuped, wiped snot away, and for a second the boo-hooing stopped and his face was just wrenched into sadness, and Dean looked at him skeptically. “You’re… pale,” Dean said, frowning, and Sam looked down. He was—and thinner, too, the bones in his wrists more obvious, and… his jacket had turned into a hoodie, soft, with long sleeves that pulled down over his hands, making them cumbersome and useless. He shoved them up his forearms, and they yanked right back down again to cover his palms, and that was irritating enough—it was worse when the lip-wobble started back up again, and tears leaked out. “Yeesh,” Dean said, and then planted his hands on his hips. “Okay, Eeyore. Let’s think back. Who’d we meet, in this town?”

*

The girl shrieked, when she saw them. “It’s you!” she screeched, earsplitting, and Sam sat down on the chair in her parents’ house and wept into his hands. “Oh my god, I thought rubylover69 was being a total fraud! This is incredible, oh my god.” She whipped out her phone and started texting.

“Miss,” Dean said, at his growliest, and that was doubly generous because he should’ve yelled, and she was barely a miss, age 30 if she was a day. “Where’s your story? Did you send it to anyone, post it anywhere?”

“Oh, yeah!” she said, and told Dean, and he disappeared to her bedroom where her laptop apparently was, and she stayed and put her hand on Sam’s knee and looked at him with deep sympathy. “Have you finally let it all out? I knew you were hiding such deep pain, Sammy. I’ve been wishing you could express yourself for so long!”

Sam wiped his face with his godawful hoodie sleeves and ached. “B-b-but,” he said, whimpery, and she looked starry-eyed into his face, and then they both jumped when there was a gunshot from upstairs.

Dean reappeared still holding his gun. “Deleted it off that archive-y place,” he said, and shrugged. “Shot the hard drive for good measure. Are you a person again yet?”

Sam snorted up snot, took a deep breath that didn’t whine. The girl stood there, gaping. “Dean,” he said, and he sounded like himself and not a concussed weepy toddler. “Oh, thank god.”

Dean looked equally relieved. “Look, miss?” he said, to the disappointed girl. “I get you guys have, like, these weird-ass kinky fantasies, but can’t you just rub one out in private and not put it on the internet for everyone to see? And Sam being a hormonal 13 year old? Come on.” He jerked his head at her, eyes on Sam. “You want me to shoot anything else?”

Sam’s tear ducts ached. He tore off the soggy hoodie and checked his hands. Skin tone normal, musculature back. The girl looked bummed. “No,” Sam said, but he really had to think about it.

_fin._


	23. Threesome (wincestiel)

“Uh, dude.”

“What is it, Dean?”

“That’s–that’s not how you do that.”

“Dean, come on.”

“What, Sammy? I mean, I may not be super experienced at this, but a blind guy could tell that something’s not right.”

“Don’t be a jerk.”

“Dean, if you would just inform me what I am doing wrong–”

“Cas, buddy, you just–you _have_ to have seen people do this before, right?”

“Of course, I watched you and your brother for years before I came to Earth.”

“…That’s still weird, man. Okay, just–look, that’s just not how you hold it.”

“Cas, maybe just watch me, first. Then you can try.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“There, see? Just watch Sam, Sammy does everything right.”

“Dean.”

“Ha. All right, buddy, you got it now? You ready to have a good time?”

“Yes, of course, Dean. Thank you again for including me.”

Cas lined up, and hit the ball. Dean clapped him on the back when he sank it into the whale’s mouth, and Sam sighed in relief. Mini-golf shouldn’t have been this difficult.

_fin._


	24. Alpha/Beta/Omega (Chuck/Becky)

Even if he’d created the best story of all time, and even if he was the generator of the two best characters who’d ever walked the earth, and even if he was her favorite writer on the whole planet, Becky thought sometimes that Chuck didn’t really have that great of an imagination.

“It’ll be _fun_,” she said, for maybe the twentieth time.

Chuck wrinkled his nose. “Seems a little–um. Weird, maybe?”

Weird, said the guy who was like a _prophet_ or something. Becky sighed. It wasn’t this hard to get the gals in her Supernatural group on Yahoo to do something, and they fought about _everything_. “It’s just, you know,” she said, and threw up her hands. “Roleplay! Spicing it up! It’s what couples do!”

“Roleplay,” Chuck said, squirming, and okay, so the time she’d tried to get him to pretend he was Sam hadn’t worked out too good. Becky was trying to turn it down a notch and get most of her Supernatural urges out in good RP online. This one was going to be just for her and Chuck.

…Well, mostly for her and Chuck. He didn’t have to know she’d gotten the idea from a Supernatural fic. At least she wasn’t going to try to get him to play the Sam part again. He clearly didn’t have quite the chutzpah for it.

“So there’s…” Chuck looked at the printout she’d made him. “Okay, three sexes?”

“Six actually?” she said. Jeez, it was like he hadn’t even read the chart. “And all kinds of _awesome_ worldbuilding stuff with heats and knots and, oh, mating rituals.” He blinked at her, and she realized she’d drifted a little. Sammy and mating rituals. Dean was so lucky. She leaned closer on the bed, trying to get Chuck at least a little excited. “Sometimes there’s dystopian societies, and omegas are slaves, and then there’s a super exciting revolution and the star-crossed lovers end up starting a movement for change!”

“Sounds… awesome,” Chuck said, and tapped the chart with his finger. “Hm. The worldbuilding is giving me an idea for a story, though.”

“Awesome!” Becky said, and it really was. Oh, man. Sam and Dean in an omegaverse, written by her man? Her life really couldn’t get much better. Still, this was meant to be a date night, and they hadn’t really gotten anywhere. She stood up. “So, do you get it? It makes sense?”

Chuck scratched his beard, thinking, but he nodded, and untied his bathrobe. “Yeah,” he said, and put on his sexy face. “Come here, my little omega,” he purred.

It _was_ sexy, kinda, but Becky hesitated. “Wait,” she said, derailed before they’d even started. “What makes you think _you’re_ the alpha?”

_fin._


	25. Monsterfucking (Dean/Benny/Castiel)

"This place sucks,“ Dean announced, and Benny and Castiel looked at each other. He wasn’t wrong, Benny thought, but it wasn’t exactly original.

"This just occurring to you, brother?” he said. Castiel sat a little way away on a log, head cocked. Strange beast.

“Ha ha,” Dean said, and it was sour. He sprawled out near the little fire they’d dared build, carving at a bit of half-rotted lumber with his smaller knife, the axe at easy reach by his hip. “I’m just saying,” he said, grimacing as he hacked at the wood, “all this space and all this water and trees, it should be kinda nice, except that it’s full of one hundred percent monsters. How’s that fair.”

Castiel’s head tilted the other direction. “Dean, I’m not a monster.”

That earned a snort. “Yeah,” Dean said. He stuck his knife in the ground, tossing the wood into the fire. So much for that. “You’re not exactly human either, though, buddy.”

“True,” Benny said, and bared his teeth at Castiel in what could be counted as a smile. “At least I started out human.” Castiel frowned at him. He was far too easy to needle.

Dean sighed, leaned back on his elbows. They’d killed a fair few today, and he’d been pretty well splashed with black-blood ooze, with mud, with whatever it was wraiths turned into when they popped after an angel smote them. Benny could smell all of it, even over the usual head-pounding aroma of Dean’s blood, and even still it wasn’t unappealing. Castiel watched him, too, but then Castiel always watched him. Benny wasn’t sure Dean had noticed.

“_And_,” Dean said, like he was continuing a conversation, “it’s been like four months since I’ve eaten anything.”

“The afterlife requires no sustenance,” Castiel said. Small mercies, Benny thought, although sometimes he considered biting Castiel just to see what would happen.

“Yeah, and that sucks!” Dean said. He kicked at the soil with one boot, spraying some dirt into the fire. “No food, no beer. That’s like everything that’s fun about living, besides sex.”

Benny raised his eyebrows. “You missing the good life, chief?” he said.

Dean tossed another stick into the fire, looking surly. “I’d go for Jeannie McMullens at this point,” he grumbled, and Castiel frowned and said, “Was that the young lady with the—” and Dean said, _“Yes,_ and it’s so weird that you know that, Cas,” and Benny was a little lost, but Dean wasn’t wrong. Months since Dean had been here—and Castiel, presumably—and Benny had been here years longer than that, and it really didn’t seem like there was much of a point of staying alive, from stopping the other baddies from eating your throat. There hadn’t been a point, really, other than stubbornness. Until Dean arrived.

He still looked surly. Benny stretched out his legs, leaning back on the cracked tree stump he’d picked. “Well, Dean,” he said, “we could offer you a little privacy if you wanted to apply a little self-love, though I do wonder if that might attract just as many werewolves as you do with that winning smile.” Dean gave him a one-finger salute, and Benny smiled. “We could offer our services, too, of course.”

Castiel looked at him, confused, and Dean didn’t look much better. “What? What services?”

Benny shrugged. “I used to be a person,” he said, and jerked a thumb at Castiel. “He’s person-shaped, anyway, though he might not know what to do with his good fortune. I’m only saying, you are technically living, Dean. You could have a little fun, if you wanted to.”

Dean blinked, and then his face went to a strange place, an expression Benny hadn’t yet seen him wear. “With you,” he said, strained, and Benny said, “Him too,” and Castiel looked back and forth between them, clearly as out of his depth as he usually was. Dean shook his head, said, “Screwing with nonhumans is usually more Sammy’s bag than mine.” The oft-mentioned Sam, right. Benny wondered how that had gone.

Castiel leaned his elbows on his knees, frowning. “You did have sexual relations with Anna. She was an angel. Though I object to the categorization of angels as monsters,” he said, to Benny.

Benny waved a hand. “So, you’re halfway there,” he said, and Dean rolled his eyes, but he looked at Castiel, speculatively, and then at Benny, more so. Benny grinned, and stood, and offered Dean a hand up from the dirt, which after a few seconds Dean did take, and allowed himself to be levered to his feet. Standing, they were near enough the same height, and Dean’s smell was even stronger up close. Enough to make Benny want to bite, if he hadn’t sworn off that kind of thing. He leaned in, and Dean’s pupils got big, and his smell changed just that tiny bit, and with Castiel watching Benny spread his hand on Dean’s chest, felt the life kicking in him. “Just a thought, chief,” he said, and Dean’s breath hitched, and he looked at Benny’s mouth, and then at Castiel on the other side of the fire.

“I,” Dean said, hesitating, and then his eyes sharpened and he said in a totally different tone, “aw, son of a bitch,” and Benny followed his look to see a pack of adlets coming out of the woods, their jaws dripping at the smell of Dean’s human meat.

“Oh, well,” Benny said, drawing his blade. “We’ll think about it, for next time.”

“Think of what?” Castiel said, but then the adlets were on them, and Dean had to kill the monsters, rather than anything else he might’ve been thinking of.

_fin._


	26. Orgasm Denial (wincest)

“Dean, come on.”

“Screw you, dude. Or–no, actually, _not_ screw you, dude.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Look, I don’t even know what the big deal is.”

“You know what you said, Sammy. I can’t _believe_ you.”

“This is ridiculous. We’re naked. We’re ready. Dude, your dick is still hard. Just come over here.“

“Are you kidding me? This is about principles, now. About where we draw a line in the sand and say, what are we going to take? And I’m not taking that, Sammy, no way.”

“It’s personal opinion. It’s not like I’m declaring an objective fact, here. What does it matter?”

“It matters a _lot_, you philistine. Say it again. Do it.”

“Dean.”

“No, come on. You’re the one who felt the need to make commentary right as the magic was about to happen, it’s clearly important to you. Say it.”

Sam sighed. “Keith Moon was more about style than skill,” he repeated, hating himself (and Dean, a little), “and he wouldn’t have lasted long in a better band.”

Dean propped his hands on his naked hips, glaring. “There it is. Yeah, you proud of yourself? Last time I ever put on Quadrophenia to set a mood.”

He stomped off, still fuming. Sam slumped back on the bed. His dick thought he was an idiot, too, though Sam thought Dean should be taking at least some of the blame for this. Why couldn’t they have just started making out to Zeppelin IV, like usual. The Who. Honestly, even the name was stupid.

Dean shouted back down the hall: “No mocking the name, either!”

Sam pressed the pillow over his face.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I'd been able to finish; hopefully anyone had a laugh, if you got this far.


End file.
